Lindemans: good wine, bad muse.
I am not quite sure what that word is for what I am feeling right now. It is like smug, or maybe just content (or maybe half a bottle of shiraz but that is not one word).
I have not seen my dad as pleased with anything as he is with his new car in quite some time. Over the last three days we have talked about cars in general and Saabs in particular; spent hours poring over OS maps of the Derbyshire countryside; talked about Vikings; watched Bleak House, Scrapheap Challenge, some rugby, and Antiques Roadshow; been sensible; been silly; and teased my mother. I let him patiently explain the difference between beer and lager for what must be the third or fourth time even though he knows I am no more likely to remember it this time than any other, and he let me detail the linguistic difference between Old English terms for hill-formations even though I know he is only interested in the historical aspects of my course. I am so like my dad it sometimes scares me.
My mum has changed more in the last two months than I have in the three years since I moved out. She still has little habits which irk me (like the way she will be completely unconciously oblivious to whatever comment I have just made, and then five seconds later repeat it word for word in exactly the same intonation and everything) but she is so relaxed and cool now. My brother and his girlfriend are coming to stay over Christmas and she has bullied my dad into letting them sleep together, which I would never have expected of her. We drank mulled wine, white wine, and Yorkshire Terrier inbetween gleefully traipsing around York in the pouring rain, happily complaining about people who dawdle and get in your way and block entrances and exits. The great thing about my mum is that she will stop at any quaint cafe for a cup of tea, but she will stop twice as fast if that cafe is licensed. The other great thing is that she pays for everything and is so well-practised at this that you do not even notice her doing it.
My parents are the best. There is no competition. They are so sweet now it is just the two of them; they have little in-jokes and they talk about their friends like I have the foggiest idea who that is. They have mock-arguments which usually end up with my mum looking something up, and they go to B&Q together, and my dad always drives and, when the other one is out of the room, they tell me in stage whispers "Your dad works so hard!" and "Sheila's in charge of Christmas," and "Your dad says, don't let the kids spend too much on him for his birthday," and "I like to change the channel when your mother's out of the room!".
Also, they have everything. Need a spare double duvet? No problem. Need the name of a good jewellers? No problem! Need an inch:mile Ordance Survey map of the area between Matlock and Ashbourne, published between 1939 and 1941? No problem.
So. I like weekends with my parents. They is somehow removed from the space-time continuum. It is not possible to worry about things with them.
Now, however, I am back. I am still not worried about anything (well, one thing, maybe) but that is more to do with my refusal to entertain stress this year than that I don't have anything to worry about. There are certain things I am still letting play out before I can really understand, but I have other things mostly under control.
Everything is ok.
I have not seen my dad as pleased with anything as he is with his new car in quite some time. Over the last three days we have talked about cars in general and Saabs in particular; spent hours poring over OS maps of the Derbyshire countryside; talked about Vikings; watched Bleak House, Scrapheap Challenge, some rugby, and Antiques Roadshow; been sensible; been silly; and teased my mother. I let him patiently explain the difference between beer and lager for what must be the third or fourth time even though he knows I am no more likely to remember it this time than any other, and he let me detail the linguistic difference between Old English terms for hill-formations even though I know he is only interested in the historical aspects of my course. I am so like my dad it sometimes scares me.
My mum has changed more in the last two months than I have in the three years since I moved out. She still has little habits which irk me (like the way she will be completely unconciously oblivious to whatever comment I have just made, and then five seconds later repeat it word for word in exactly the same intonation and everything) but she is so relaxed and cool now. My brother and his girlfriend are coming to stay over Christmas and she has bullied my dad into letting them sleep together, which I would never have expected of her. We drank mulled wine, white wine, and Yorkshire Terrier inbetween gleefully traipsing around York in the pouring rain, happily complaining about people who dawdle and get in your way and block entrances and exits. The great thing about my mum is that she will stop at any quaint cafe for a cup of tea, but she will stop twice as fast if that cafe is licensed. The other great thing is that she pays for everything and is so well-practised at this that you do not even notice her doing it.
My parents are the best. There is no competition. They are so sweet now it is just the two of them; they have little in-jokes and they talk about their friends like I have the foggiest idea who that is. They have mock-arguments which usually end up with my mum looking something up, and they go to B&Q together, and my dad always drives and, when the other one is out of the room, they tell me in stage whispers "Your dad works so hard!" and "Sheila's in charge of Christmas," and "Your dad says, don't let the kids spend too much on him for his birthday," and "I like to change the channel when your mother's out of the room!".
Also, they have everything. Need a spare double duvet? No problem. Need the name of a good jewellers? No problem! Need an inch:mile Ordance Survey map of the area between Matlock and Ashbourne, published between 1939 and 1941? No problem.
So. I like weekends with my parents. They is somehow removed from the space-time continuum. It is not possible to worry about things with them.
Now, however, I am back. I am still not worried about anything (well, one thing, maybe) but that is more to do with my refusal to entertain stress this year than that I don't have anything to worry about. There are certain things I am still letting play out before I can really understand, but I have other things mostly under control.
Everything is ok.
posted by Lucy at 8:51 pm
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